


Domestic Skills

by RosiePaw



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-30
Updated: 2010-05-30
Packaged: 2017-10-09 19:27:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/90731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RosiePaw/pseuds/RosiePaw





	Domestic Skills

The mission’s a complete waste of time and trouble.  The local bigwig they’re supposed to negotiate with attempts a Pegasus version of bad cop/good cop.  First his soldiers restrain the team and pick out the weakest member to use as an example, then Mr. Big appears on the scene and “intervenes.” 

Oh, so sorry, the boys misunderstood orders, my deepest apologies.  Let me brush off your shirt, Dr. McKay, tug it straight, set my hand on your shoulder as I guide you to a chair, offer you a drink.

Rodney, bless his heart, snaps back, “No, thank you, it’s probably citrus.”  He glares so fiercely that Mr. Big hastily redirects his attention to Teyla, who accepts both a seat and a drink.  Her face is calm, her back rigid with anger.  She doesn’t touch her drink. 

Ronon, growling audibly, elects to remain standing.

John sits.  And makes an obvious point of keeping one hand on his gun.  Not surprisingly, Teyla and Mr. Big fail to reach agreement on a trade deal.

The return to Atlantis is almost as bad.  John sits again, in the infirmary now, watching Keller’s hands all over Rodney’s arms, chest, back as she checks for injuries.  Nothing serious, just bruises and scratches, let me know if anything changes but for now you’re free to go.

_Finally. _

The door to Rodney’s quarters is barely closed when his back hits the wall, John so gone in desperation that he’s trying to pin Rodney’s wrists and pull Rodney’s shirt off simultaneously.  

“John, wait, you can’t, you have to...” but John’s mouth closes over Rodney’s, hot and demanding, and Rodney’s words are lost.

John needs to _touch_.  Find every place someone else has touched _his_ Rodney, overwrite their touch again and again with his fingers, his lips, his tongue, his teeth until no alien traces remain to contest his sole possession.  He needs to touch, _now_, and the stupid shirt is _still_ in the way, rucked up and twisted and apparently _stuck_ and John pulls and _r-r-rip_.   

“Sheppard!  Did you just...”

John barely hears, doesn’t care.  Lost in exploration of the expanse of Rodney’s skin, he’s forgotten the shirt already.  He maps the scratches, probes the bruises, driven by an overriding need to know how deep they run so that he can counter them.  He leaves marks of his own with fingers and teeth to hide the marks others have left, to reclaim what’s _his_.    

When Rodney hisses in pain John laves the mottled skin with his tongue, mumbling sorry, sorry, forgive me, forgive me my trespasses, Rodney, even though I failed to protect you from those who trespassed against you.

And Rodney’s freed hands stroke down John’s back.  They wrap around John’s hips first to cradle, then to clutch, thumbs pressing hard against John’s hipbones through his BDUs.  Rodney’s hands, broad and warm and sure, slip around and down to knead John’s ass like a cat kneading a favoured lap as Rodney opens beneath John’s touch, lets John in.

Forgiven, John can finally come home.

***

It’s dark o’ clock in the morning when John extricates himself from Rodney’s unconscious embrace and Rodney’s bed.  Atlantis beds being what they are, he doesn’t leave behind an empty space.  There’s simply a bit less lack-of-space.

Rodney mumbles fretfully and makes grabby motions with his hands, then settles again without ever really waking.  He’s all relaxed and warm and tempting, but John has to go, can’t let himself get caught. 

He’s pretty sure that push-come-to-shove, Woolsey would back him.  But John’s the guy who reviews the patrol schedules with Lorne and signs off on them.  He has no excuse not to know how they run.  As John sees it, that means he’s responsible for making sure that Woolsey never has to decide whether to back him or not.

He can’t _let himself_ get caught.

John has to grope around a bit to find his clothes.  Pants, boxers, where’s his...  Oh, here.  No, wait, that smells more like Rodney’s...  And then John remembers.

A few moments later, fully dressed, he slips out of the room.

***

Rodney McKay is a genius.  He presumably understands the theory of knocking at doors.  The application?  Not so much.

“...which would generate a 4% increase in energy lev...  Wait, what are you doing?  Is that a needle?  _Is that my shirt?_”

“It’s nice to see you too, Rodney.  Sorry about barging into your quarters – oh, wait!  These are _my_ quarters.”

“Stop trying to distract me.  Is that my shirt you’re holding behind your back?”

Trapped, John displays the damning evidence, needle and thread still hanging off where he’s not quite done closing the split seam.

Rodney has never shrunk from stating the obvious.  “You’re mending my shirt.”

“I tore it.”

“Yes, but it doesn’t necessarily follow that...  I didn’t even know you knew how to sew.”

John ducks his head, rubs the back of his neck.  The original plan was to slip the mended shirt quietly back into Rodney’s quarters.  John never meant to have this conversation.

“I was hard on clothes when I was a kid.”

“Let me guess – one death-defying stunt after another, right?  In fact, just like now, except without real guns.  Although given that you grew up in the States, I suppose it’s possible that...”

John has to smile.  “No, no real guns, Rodney.  Anyway, my mother had this idea that if I had to mend my own clothes, I’d learn to be more careful of them.”

“Did it work?”

“Nah.  But I got pretty good at mending.”

“Lots of practice, I take it.”

“Yeah.  And kind of – relaxing?”

“Can I watch?”

_That’s_ not a request John was expecting.  He’d figured on some teasing, but Rodney’s serious, his blue eyes wide and earnest, mouth a straight if slanted line.

“Not a lot _to_ watch, Rodney.  The needle goes in one side, it comes out the other.  Over and over.”

“Yes.  But.”  And Rodney stops.  Meredith Rodney “Spit-it-out” McKay stops and twitches silently.

John raises his eyebrows and figures, thirty seconds.

Sure enough: “It’s just.  You.  You’re...”  Rodney takes a deep breath and goes for it.  “The idea of my hot, possessive boyfriend not only _sewing_ but sewing _my_ shirt is, is...” 

“McKay, if you use the words ‘sweet’ or ‘cute’ they will never find your body.”

“Right, not sweet or cute then, but really, can I watch?”

“Are you telling me you have a sewing voyeurism kink?”  John drawls this out as slowly as he can just for the pleasure of watching Rodney’s face get redder with each word.

“No!  Uh, not in general?”

Just for John, he means.  And that _is_ kind of... sweet.  And cute.

“Okay, buddy, you can watch.”

Rodney pulls up a chair.  John picks up the needle and tries to re-focus on the shirt.

Rodney licks his lips.

John wonders if he’s going to get the shirt finished without interruption.


End file.
